Crawl from Eden
by Flyaway21
Summary: The addiction and connection of blood.
1. Chapter 1

Burn all of your bridges just so that you can build them again with thicker ropes.

Hurt all the people you love and then commit every felony to win them back.

This is the art of living with a ticking heart.

This is how I destroyed you. And this, is how I kept you alive.

-SHINJI MOON

* * *

Sometimes Sam wonders if it is the demon blood in his veins that allows him to lie to Dean. If it casts a sort of protective invisible barrier between the two of them. Ever since they were kids, it had been near impossible for Sam to hide anything from his brother. Dean saw through him with frightening ease.

It wasn't because they shared the name of Winchester. Wasn't even because, up until a few months ago at least , they had the same blood flowing through their veins.

It was just because they were Sam and Dean. And for Sam, more than anything else, it was annoying as hell.

After all, he had perfected the innocent look by the age of twelve. As a child, it had come in handy, mainly in obtaining bigger portions of food from tired middle aged waitresses. One lazy blink upwards, a quirk of his head to the side if he really want to rub it in, and his plate would be piled high with fries. Dean loved it, thought it was the most hilarious thing in the world until Sam started using it on him. And then he became more wary, at times studying those large hazel eyes like one might a loaded gun.

These days, Sam restricted its use to stubborn police captains and grieving parents. But Dean was different. He knew the tells that Sam swore he didn't have. Learned them, memorized them, could write the fuckin book on them.

Which is why he was intensely grateful that Dean isn't looking at him now, especially since Sam is halfway convinced he's about to burst into flame.

There's this ghost. There's always a ghost but this one was the daughter of a preacher. That had snagged Dean's attention to the point where the bad puns from his brother reached new heights.

Or rather lows.

Sam didn't even spare him the cursory forced laugh or rolled eyes- couldn't- because there were so many ways this could go wrong. The first and foremost being Sam stepping onto hallowed ground and turning into a large pile of Sam ash.

He hadn't been surrounded by four walls of stained glass since before he started drinking blood. And by now, he doubts there's anything except demon running through his system. So, of course they have to go inside a church because the universe hates him. It's a written law out there somewhere, like gravity, that Sam and Dean Winchester do not get breaks.

He'd spent the entire day trying to come up with a halfway decent excuse that Dean might buy, but no such luck so here he is, sweat dripping from his brow, trying to think up a prayer that might convince God to allow his presence in a holy place, just this once. And if not-access denied. Then Dean would know. Dean would see.

Sam feels his heart pick up inside his chest, fights the urge to turn and run far away.

He hovers near the entrance, pretends to glance around, to scour the area. Dean thinks something bad might have happened here, something that turned a dead girl into a ghost. Sam's mainly left the investigating to his brother these days. He pretends to research, drags up enough information in twenty minutes that he can pretend took all day to find.

It's difficult, near impossible, for Sam to focus on things like newspaper articles and autopsy reports anymore. Partly because the blood in his system turns the world into a shattered sort of kaleidoscope that he needs to piece back together little by little. Partly because his temperature has risen four degrees and his heartbeat has doubled, keeping pace to that Metallica song that Dean puts on repeat.

But mainly because there's Dean. Dean to protect. And so many things that he needs protection from. Swallowing demon blood was not unlike removing a blindfold. And Sam could actually see, feel, taste all the evil out there. And while Dean isn't defenseless, might punch him for daring to think that, it still only takes one bullet, one defense dropped, one second too late, and it's all over. Again.

Besides, Dean can't feel demons, not like Sam can. A blip on his radar, a silent tug somewhere in his chest when one creeps too close. Dean doesn't need to know, doesn't need to worry. Because Sam is finally strong enough to keep them all away.

Strong enough to keep Hell from latching its claws into Dean again. He imagines how it felt when Castiel tore him away, the shudder that ran through the pit. The loss.

Sam and Hell both want Dean with something akin to desperation. But Sam knows that he'll be the one to keep him. It's taken longer than it should have but he's learned the price it will take to keep Dean safe and he'll pay it, gladly.

Snoring, bitching at him for buying rabbit food, smell of motor oil and leather seats. For as low an opinion as Dean has of himself, his brother is the last person in the world who deserves to be damned. Sam is already dirty, has been tainted since birth and there's nothing to do about that now. No Hail Marys. No absolution. He can kill other evil, hope to restore some sort of balance, a payment for what he is, that he exists at all but even that is a stretch, wishful thinking.

Dean calls his name, a slight edge of impatience and Sam realizes he's been hesitating at the door still, a somewhat stricken expression written across his face. He smells blood, even now, even here, and he realizes it's just because he's bitten his lip.

Sam shuffles forward, whole body tensing, waiting for the pain, for the burn. He wonders if he might be able to jump out fast enough to prevent full body decomposition.

And then goes boneless with relief when seconds tick by and nothing happens. So relieved that he isn't even aware that Dean is giving him a scrutinizing look as he staggers to one of the pews, rests his head on the worn wood in front of him. Because maybe this means that Sam isn't as much of a monster as he thought.

There is a brief rustle, so loud in the quiet of the church and Dean is tipping Sam's head back, brushing messy hair from his eyes so he can lay his hand against his forehead. Sam trembles at the cool touch.

"You have a fever."

Sam just nods. The demon blood inside his veins turns his body into a furnace. He's lucky that Dean hasn't noticed before now.

"Sammy, look at me."

Sam is powerless against that and blinks up at his brother even though it's clearly a bad idea. Dean writing the book on him and all that.

"Your eyes are dilated too." And there's that crease of concern that Dean wears on his forehead like a second skin.

"Flu maybe." he rasps out, a quick shrug of shoulders.

"Well fuck Sammy, gettin kinda feeble in your old age, huh?"

It earns a smile from Sam just like it was meant to.

"You shouldn't curse in church." Is all he says, still focused on the smell of Dean around him, the gentle brush of calloused fingers through his hair. Sam knows he should push away instead of leaning towards it. Dean isn't into chick flicks moments like these and only puts up with them when he thinks there's something seriously wrong with Sam. Something worse than a flu. If Sam was in the right mindset, he'd push him away. But he doesn't. Just tilts his head and closes his eyes and soaks up Dean's presence. Better than morphine.

They find and burn the bones. Salt and fire. And blood too. Lately, Sam's nights always end in blood.

* * *

It's almost midnight. Time gets better and worse for Sam after the clock strikes 12. Just a few minutes to go and Dean is trying to fight off sleep, has been for the past two hours. Sam barely resisting the urge to just knock him out with a clean right hook, send him sprawling into unconsciousness so he can get on with it already. But that would kind of defeat the purpose of all this.

His skin is starting to itch, deep down where he can't scratch it, bones shaking in their casing.

After they'd gotten back to the hotel- a hole in the wall that resembled every other hole in the wall they'd stayed in, Dean had shoved pills down Sam's throat and covered him with at least three blankets, snapping at Sam to shut up when he brought up the goal was to lower his temperature instead of increasing it. But Sam had let him because Dean needed to take care of Sam. Needed it like breathing.

Some warped thing in their biology, something that clicked in the wrong place in Dean's brain when Sam was laid in his arms as a baby in front of a burning home. Take care of Sam. And Dean had, always.

Sam watches Dean's chin dip further and further towards his chest. He already knows how this night is going to end. So he stares at Dean and tries not to think of what God might think of him. After all, God knows why he's doing what he is and isn't God supposed to care about that things like that? He did allow him on hallowed ground after all. And even if not, Sam still can't bring himself to stop. Can't stop picturing the deep bloody grooves all along Dean's stomach and neck from the hellhounds. His cocky brave stupid brother ripped nearly in half.

And yeah, usually there are rules, moral codes to follow, things you just don't do no matter what. But this is Dean and Dean is different. There are no boundaries, no lines he wouldn't cross- something he's discovered recently. And maybe he really isn't Sam anymore. It was something that he had thought on long and hard, how much blood he'd have to drink to shift the balance. For him to become more of something else.

Eventually Dean falls asleep to the droning commercials in between a Star Wars marathon. Sam slips from his bed, turns off the TV and allows the room to settle into silence. Dean shuffles a little, dipping lower into the mattress. Sam lays a blanket on top of him, imagining the taunting Dean would subject him to if he were awake. But it's the middle of winter and the heater in their room is barely clinging to life and it might die while Sam is gone and what then? A small part of his mind realizes that he's blowing this all wildly out of proportion, that the worst that might happen to Dean is getting a cold.

But it feels serious. Feels like Sam doing penance, giving a part of his body over as payment, abandoning a piece of himself behind.

It always feels dangerous when he leaves Dean.

Sam triple checks the salt lines, cuts his hand to draw a sigil with his blood on the window that he'll wipe off before Dean wakes. He'll be gone an hour at most. Knows Dean will be safe but it still feels all kinds of wrong leaving his brother sleeping in bed. As close to defenseless as you can be.

But he'll drink his fill tonight, keep more stored in a canister for later.

In a week, he'll have to go out and do it all over again. He'll have to leave Dean alone, repeat his atonement. But for now, for a little longer, his brother will be safe.


	2. Chapter 2

all my grief says the same thing –

this isn't how it's supposed to be

this isn't how it's supposed to be.

and the world laughs, holds my hope by the throat

says: but this is how it is

-Fortesa Latifi

* * *

Blood gives Sam a specific high. It isn't floating or weightless. His bones never go hollow. There are no bubbles in the blood, no soft light filling up the empty spaces between his organs. If anything, it's the opposite.

For the first time in his life, Sam knows what it is to feel grounded.

The life of a hunter doesn't afford roots. Sam still remembers watching the other children in school go home at the end of the day with a sort of fond wistfulness. The kind of home with a fenced backyard and a big floppy eared dog and tacky pictures hung with nails on the walls.

And then Sam would find his way back to their motel of the week, four grimy walls with patches of black mold. Showers with no hot water. Loud strangers in the rooms next door. If they were lucky, the manager would be a gray life weary woman. If not, there were men with bright eyes and chapped lips and twitching hands. Sam never understood until he was older why Dean would sling one arm over his shoulder when the men looked his way. Why Dean drew him in closer, fingers like fishhooks twisted in his t-shirt.

That had been their life until academic advisors started to notice his grades, the ease in which he passed tests, the books he read between classes just to kill time. Until the college applications started pouring in and then Sam let himself hope that fate might have something more in mind than the short and brutal existence that of a hunter would entail.

His mind set upon it ravenously, claws digging in, jealously guarded against his father. He would study hard and get a scholarship and take Dean with him. Dean was resourceful, a good mechanic, a hard worker when he wanted to be. He could find work anywhere. And if not, Sam would make enough for the both of them. In the end, it was Stanford that came like a lifeline. Full ride, everything he imagined it would be. And all the hard work, all the sleepless nights, all the fights with his father had been worth that letter that spilled out congratulations and the chance of something new.

He spent the winter imagining what it would be like to grow roots. He and Dean could go months without stitching each other up. No blood and no salt. They could drive to the beaches in the California heat, the windows of the Impala rolled all the way down, the sound of Metallica blaring as they sped down the twisting gravel. They would see just how red Dean would get when he burned because his skin had a natural defiance against tanning. How dark the freckles scattered on his shoulders and nose would become. It would be perfect, nothing but wind and sea and palm trees. But more importantly safety and a fresh chance for the both of them.

In the end, California was beautiful, picturesque even, all that Sam imagined it might be.

But there was no Dean.

Dean hadn't come. Had said no with those cutting green eyes that begged him to stay, begged him not to do this, not to run away again. But he wouldn't stay and Dean couldn't leave and Sam hated everything around him for that fact alone.

It had been different with Jess until it wasn't. Even that small slice of normality had been torn away.

Sam hadn't protected her. Wasn't strong enough back then. But here and now, with the dark blood flowing through his veins and with Dean at his side, he is connected, attached to everything. Can feel the shudders that run through the ground. Can feel his brother, a living beating pulse, the heat of his body, the smell of his skin.

And up till he had killed them just moments before, Sam had felt the demons like shards of sunlight in his eyes. Blaring and oppressive.

A small respite of shade and Sam can breathe again. He lays on his back, ground cold and muddy beneath him, waits until he catches his breath and only then does he begin to drink. He tries to start small, to keep it neat but that never lasts long. The thirst kicks in, vicious with a vice like grip deep inside his bones and there's nothing at all to slake it but drink deep and long. The world goes away for awhile and when Sam comes back to himself, hours might have passed. It's still dark but for all Sam knows, it might as well be the next month. He checks his watch, makes sure he hasn't lost days instead of hours. 3:58 am. He still has time. The building he sits in is deserted, a bad part of town no doubt and the police won't find the bodies until he and Dean are states away. There is glass on the floor, blood drying on his face, shadows waving on the walls.

He comes back to the room once he is able to shove the shakes far beneath his skin where he can feel but not see them. Dean is a snoring lump on the bed, messy hair the only thing peeking out from beneath the covers because in the cold months, Dean likes to burrow. Sam wipes the blood from the window. The cut on his hand has already healed, nothing more than a faint red memory. Salt lines are still good. Sam double checks them just in case and then a third time because with the Winchester luck, you can never be too sure.

And then because Sam doesn't sleep anymore, he sits on the bed, stares up at the ceiling and listens to Dean breathe in and out. Sometimes when he's gone too long without blood, Sam wishes he could still sleep. Longs for the bliss of unconsciousness to wipe everything away for a few hours. But it's an empty wish and he finds new ways to keep busy.

The sun is still hours away but Sam closes his eyes and feels the world waking, small ticks that are impossible for others to see. The heater rattles in the wall. The air vents puff out dust. An alarm sounds five rooms over. The cars on a nearby freeway pick up speed. Sam's heartbeat skips and scatters, not content to keep to a pattern. He still hasn't gotten used to that, still holds his breath and waits for the inevitable when his heart seems to fall asleep when the rest of his can't. Oddly enough, that might be the worst thing. The taste of copper that is impossible to brush off his teeth, the subtle scent of sulfur that he catches when his anger spikes, the black outs of lost time, those are tough but Sam deals. His heart not being able to decide if it wants to give up or keep going is a bit more off-putting.

He sighs and sinks against the pillows, taking a moment to catalogue any injuries. The demons had put up more of a fight than he'd expected. It was still child's play, over before it even began but his desperation made him clumsy, made his grip on them slick and fumbling.

The lower ranking demons were consistent at least. A flair of his presence, of the power their blood afforded him and they tried to flee. The older demons, the ones with more strength stashed up over the years, were drawn by Sam. By what killing him would mean.

Demons were stupid that way.

The bed is too soft, too suffocating beneath him but Sam doesn't move. Tries to settle the pounding of his heart, tries to focus on the heaviness of his limbs, the course of strength pumping through. There is a smear of blood on the sheets and Sam sighs, bringing up his knuckles for closer inspection. One thing that demon blood didn't cure was pure human clumsiness. Sam had killed them without a scratch, without breaking a sweat, but he had tripped walking down a back alley filled with broken beer bottles during the initial high. Scraped his knuckle raw.

He pulls the sheets from the mattress and stuffs it into a bag. Dean grumbles from his place on his bed, hair sticking up in every possible direction and fixes bleary eyes on Sam. "Whswrng?"

"Just avoid the bathroom for an hour or two." Sam tries to joke even when _that_ feeling was yawning up inside him. The one that warned his blood was a bomb ready to implode. Too soon. He'd come back too soon and the shakes hadn't left yet. He needed to get out before Dean saw. Luckily his brother seemed to still be half asleep, a bit of drool on his lips, years younger in the dark, looking strangely childlike. Sam felt his heart give a nasty tug, resume its pace. He pushes away the images that flood his mind, images he knows would invade his dreams if he still slept. Dean bloody and torn. But no, Dean is here. Dean is safe. Dean is not in Hell. Sam got him back. It's been months and Sam still has to remind himself that this is real. Dean here with him. Whole.

"You ok?" Dean asked and there was that sound of concern, more familiar than anything else in the world.

"Probably just those tacos you brought back last night."

Dean humphed and buried his face back in his pillow, muttering things under his breath, already succumbing back into the pull of sleep.

And then just as the first traces of sunlight appears on the far wall, Sam slips from the room with the keys to the Impala.

He finds a little cafe a few miles down the road, deserted but for one red eyed employee yawning behind the counter. He buys Dean two sandwiches and a muffin stuffed with chocolate chips and throws at least twenty packets of ketchup into the grease soaked bag. Two of the biggest coffees he could find, Dean's black and Sam's swimming in cream and sugar. He tries not to think too much about the food that Dean considers perfectly acceptable, mainly anything loaded with salt and fat. He tries every once in awhile to replace the burger and fries with something green. Not that Sam thinks he has anyplace to judge. After all, his diet is comparable to that of a vampire these days.

But Dean deserves more and it still huts that their father didn't even try to instill some sort of healthy habits in them. Maybe he didn't think they'd live long enough to need it. The scent of sulfur and Sam swallows, counts back from a hundred and then starts again.

By the time he arrives back at the motel, the smell is gone, leaving nothing behind but the waft of leather from the Impala and the shampoo from last night's shower.

He is in the middle of juggling breakfast, car keys in his teeth, bags shoved between the door and his hip, coffees in one hand and hotel key in the other when Dean emerges from the bathroom. A fog of steam escapes behind him but his brother is already rushing forward, relieving Sam of the coffee. Before Sam can warn him that _it's hot you idiot_, Dean takes a drink from one without looking, face immediately scrunched up in distaste.

"No idea how you drink this stuff dude." Sam starts at Dean's voice, at his words, because Dean can't know. But he just lays Sam's drink on the table and quickly snatches the other, making a satisfied sound when he chugs that next. A little of the tension bleeds away. "Much better."

There are stains on Dean's clean shirt, dark splotches from where the water in his hair dripped down but he's distracted as always by food, noisily tearing through the bags. The muffin is gone in seconds. If Sam were to add another wonder of the world, Dean's metabolism just might top the list. He sits across from his brother and watches him make short work of breakfast and this is a balm against the world if there ever was one. Nothing else comes close to making Sam feel human than Dean in his space, being the typical annoying, messy older brother. And nothing else could make Sam stray as far as he has from actually being human. Nothing and no one else could turn him as far as he has.

"Sam."

Pulled from his reverie, it takes a minute to figure out what Dean's looking at that has him so spellbound. Sam glances down, follows his gaze to where he is anxiously rubbing his knuckles, skin that is still split open, bruised and dirty around the edges. Knuckles that weren't bleeding when he went to bed the night before.

"Sammy."

He doesn't want to look up, afraid of what he'll find there. But it's Dean and Sam has never had any choice when it comes to his brother. Sam glances up. "Yeah?"

"I-I just wanna make sure you're with me." Sam tries to look innocent even as a shard of cold cuts straight through him. "If- if anything were wrong, you'd tell me." Dean might not mean it as a question but that's sure how it comes out, a little too unsure, a little too vulnerable.

"Yeah, yeah of course." He smiles, cutting his eyes away, fumbling through the bag like he is starving when the scent of food turns his stomach even further.

Dean opens his mouth like he wants to say something. Then he grinds his jaw and gives one short nod.

"Good." He says but Sam knows that he doesn't believe him.


	3. Chapter 3

"And so I went through the looking glass,

stepped into the netherworld,

where up is down and food is greed,

where convex mirrors cover the walls,

where death is honor and flesh is weak.

It is ever so easy to go.

Harder to find your way back."

-Marya Hornbacher

* * *

It doesn't take long for Meg to find Sam. Three days of driving from sun up to sun down, the floor of the Impala littered with crumbled food wrappers and empty soda cans and they've somehow wound up in Oklahoma. No real purpose behind it, just mindlessly following where the road takes them.

Sam doesn't ask.

Dean doesn't tell.

That's always how they've been. One leads and the other follows.

Dry flatlands, dusty brown that stretch out far as the eye can see. Smoothed out canyons with checkered layers of eroded rock and scattered around it all are a few green trees that draw the eye amidst the monotony of everything else. Three days and the entire time, there had been one demon who'd felt familiar hovering just beyond Sam's reach. Like she was asking permission before stepping closer.

One demon that he lets within twenty feet of Dean, not that his brother will ever know, currently busy busy inside the tiny convenience store, wandering the aisles in search of pie. Sam follows a packed dirt trail towards the back of the station, settles himself against one of the broken down trucks that litters the yard, careful to keep the outhouse positioned between him and the gas station just in case Dean abandons his search for food sooner than expected.

"Good to see that you don't need me anymore." Meg gives a sardonic smile, sniffing the air and aiming an unmistakable look at his breast pocket where the weight of a small canister lies. "Movin pretty fast there, aren't ya Sammy?"

"You should be happy." He answers, pushing away the urge to glance over his shoulder, to check, to make sure. He knows, he can feel Dean but still, if his brother were to see him and Meg standing close and acting chummy-too many questions and with Sam, especially these days, Dean is akin to a dog with a bone. "This is what you wanted."

"I wanted you to control it, not turn into some pathetic addict." She scoffs, "You're weaker than before."

Sam smirks, all sharp edges and pointed sarcasm, "Try me, if you really think it'll be that easy."

"I am tempted to tell Dean." She watches Sam's face, catches the way his blood drains, his mouth tightens, the clench of a fist. "Big brother wouldn't approve of you suckin down on that red juice would he? Could be the last straw for him Sammy boy. This on top of everything else you've done and the only thing you'll see of Dean is the dust left in his tracks."

It's not true, Sam know. Dean would never leave him, doesn't matter if he would be better off, not to save his own skin, not even to save others. With Sam, there are no lines Dean wouldn't cross. No, what Dean will try to do would be far worse.

Dean would make Sam stop. He's the only one in the entire world who could. Not dad if he were still alive, not Bobby, not angels and not demons. It's just Dean who holds that singular power over Sam which is why Dean absolutely cannot know.

He'd convince Sam that the fact it's morally wrong and all kinds of twisted means a damn thing anymore. And then Sam will be weak again, worse probably than when they started. And like the laws of gravity, the universe will swoop down on them given the merest hint of opportunity. Sam just has to hold the sky up for awhile. He supposes it's only fair that his turn has come. Better that it falls on him than on Dean. Sam who is better equipped to deal with the grey complications. Sam who has been tainted since he was a baby, already dirty, a prime candidate if there ever was.

Sam knows Dean is waiting for him, probably starting to wonder where he's wandered off to and judging by the pure chaos of their lives, it won't be long before Dean starts to feel the pinpricks of panic. But still Sam can't help but slip the canister from his pocket and take a drink. Just a sip. Just enough that he can feel the wave of power drown away the doubts that Meg's words unearth.

She watches him tip the bottle into his mouth. He watches her. It's a strange game of chicken that neither are willing to lose.

The exorcism hovers on his tongue, familiar since the age of eleven when his dad refused to let him go to school until he could recite it over and over, perfected the rolling enunciation. Sometimes dad would throw a shoe at him in the middle, testing his reflexes, correcting the fumbling of sounds.

But before he can start, Meg takes a step closer, close enough that he can catch the whiff of sulfur that emits from her skin, the more subtle perfume she tries to cover it with.

"You can feel it, can't you? How it's damning you?" Her eyes swim in his gaze, iris bleeding out.

The smell of dark cloying copper and oily stains overwhelm his senses. The power, the high, that's nice but there's another side too. Dirty desperate thoughts that he would never admit to in the light off day. The blood makes him more animal than man, all instinct and little sense, just until he is able to push that flood of darkness down and away. That part never gets any easier but Sam has his entire life as practice.

Her words are all true, cutting to the heart of the matter but Sam already knows this, has known for longer than he cares to admit and so he asks, "What does it matter?"

Something that is not hatred flickers across her face, there and gone before he has time to appraise it. But a snarl follows right on its tail and he can feel how desperate she is to pull a reaction from him. Something about that makes him feel tired, bone deep weariness and the desire for sleep claws its way up again. "That's what the Winchesters do, isn't it? Sacrifice their souls for each other. Why am I not surprised that you'd follow in daddy and big brother's footsteps?" She goes on and on, mocking and threatening in turn but Sam doesn't hear. The buzzing in his ears is back, sounds that echo like he's submerged underwater. It comes upon him suddenly at random moments impossible to predict, a stranger in a dark alley, a shadow you don't hear that grabs you from behind.

The world turns large around him, peering over his shoulders, gaping obscenely, a million eyes that never close, never sleep. Sam blinks hard and tries to focus, tries to step back from the precipice. They're in the middle of some desert, a state he can't remember anymore, laid open and defenseless. Anything and everything could happen. The sun sizzles overhead and a trickle of sweat weaves its way down Sam's neck. Suddenly, his clothes are too confining. He can feel every inch of his skin stretch, trying to accommodate the fevered tempo of his heart. They're so exposed and all Sam wants is to cram Dean under a rock big enough to keep him hidden until all this is over. His fragile control can't last forever and Sam doesn't know if there are days or years stored up inside him. One less second every second.

"There's nothing there Sam." Meg's voice pulls him back because it's too soft, almost pitying and it's only then that Sam realizes he's scanning the fields around them, looking dazed, frozen in wordless concentration.

It's all kinds of wrong because he is strong and she is not and there are a dozen ways he can rip her apart in under five seconds. Ways that don't require him to lay a single finger on her. A sudden hunger rises up inside that demands pain, demands his blood or hers. He suppose it's much the same anymore.

"There's always something there." He snarls back, sounding just as vicious, just as much a demon as her but he takes a step backwards because he is so close to killing her and Sam can't remember if that's right or not.

His uncertainty seems to snap her restraint and Sam is glad because a Meg that is afraid for him and not of him means that he's doing something wrong.

"You want my advice?" She doesn't pause, doesn't wait for him to say no, to banish her, to begin the exorcism that he should have started a year ago when he first laid eyes on her. "Stop while you still can." She smiles up at the sky, feline in a way only someone who's seen that much hell can be, soft round cheeks and sharp black eyes.

Sam turns his back on her, takes a deep settling breath, reminds himself where and when he is, that Dean is alive. Dean is waiting. He hasn't gone but a few steps when her next words stop him cold. "You'll be the thing that kills Dean."

It sounds more like a promise than a warning. He turns slowly, feet nailed to the ground. "I would never hurt Dean. He's the reason-" But Sam is unable to finish because the words won't come out from where they're hiding inside his throat.

Meg can't understand, demon that she is. Meg doesn't know, hasn't known anything close to love in centuries, if ever. But the thought won't leave him alone, scatters in his mind when he tries to grab hold and force it to submit, bend it into a shape he can make sense of. There's only one thing worse than a demon killing Dean and Meg just gave it life.

"I never said it wouldn't be ironic." She says, a huff of laughter, a rustle of wind.

And then she's gone.


	4. Chapter 4

In the daylight we know what's gone is gone,

but at night it's different.

Nothing gets finished,

not dying, not mourning;

the dead repeat themselves, like clumsy drunks

lurching sideways through the doors we open to them in sleep;

these slurred guests, never entirely welcome,

even those we have loved the most,

especially those we have loved the most,

returning from where we shoved them away too quickly:

from under the ground, from under the water,

they clutch at us, they clutch at us,

we won't let go.

-Margaret Atwood

* * *

Nothing good ever comes from Dean being bored.

His brother isn't designed for idleness, isn't meant to twiddle his thumbs, to be assigned the role of spectator instead of player. It doesn't happen often but when it does, Dean gets…antsy.

Sam knows the feeling. Skin crawling, fingers tapping a too fast tempo atop the table, something caught behind his throat that no amount of coughing can quite clear.

They haven't encountered a demon in weeks and instead of praise their good fortune, Dean grows suspicious and tense, shoulders hunched around his neck as if he's about to lead them both into a trap. Sam doesn't tell Dean that he killed five the night before, the ones that were lingering around their latest dime a dozen motel, waiting for the cover of shadows with intentions just as dark. That the blood in their veins now flows in his. That it's getting easier and easier until what would have been impossible a year ago now hardly presents a challenge. That sometimes when he lays on the bed next to Dean, just before the blood hits his system in a mind altering rush, Sam is afraid of how far this could go. And how much he could learn to like it.

Sam doesn't say any of this.

It doesn't take long until the futile trickle of days becomes too much for Dean. Sam finds him up before dawn searching out a hunt, proactive in a way he's never had to be before, pouring over old dusty books and trailing his fingers over maps and police reports. It's difficult to keep danger away from Dean but Sam has managed so far. Keeping Dean from the danger…that's another story entirely.

And so Sam was forced to improvise.

The excuses were easy at first. Sam was bone tired, he confessed to Dean late one night, just enough vulnerability in his eyes to make his brother stop and take notice. Couldn't they have a single day off and relax? Hadn't they finally earned that? Didn't Dean want to catch up on sleep too now that they finally had the chance? Who knows when they might get this lucky again after all.

And because that only worked for a day, soon after Sam became sick, faked with a rattling cough. That, in addition to his new temperature, had been enough to convince Dean. Sam didn't even complain when Dean fussed over him, one hand carding through his hair to lull him into the pretense of sleep, the other hand soothing a cold washcloth over his throat and dipping between his collarbones. And Sam pretended because he was just happy Dean was keeping busy and more importantly, keeping out of danger. But two days passed and Sam couldn't claim nausea any longer without Dean bringing up the threat of a hospital. The next day brought with it a miraculous recovery for Sam. Dean just sighed and shook his head, long used to Sam's body swinging back and forth between extremes.

Next he brought up the idea of taking stock, of cleaning weapons. Their guns jammed. Was that rust along the blade of one of their knives? And since Dean had a deep and personal prejudice against weapons being anything other than flawless, they spent that day taking apart and stripping every single piece they owned.

Sam pulled a muscle in his back the next day. It didn't take much more for Dean to grow suspicious and then exasperated, especially since Sam had complained less when hunting with broken ribs. He offered to go alone, just a quick hunt, something simple to stay fresh, to keep from going crazy. And since that was unacceptable, Sam found himself pressed into the passenger seat of the Impala the next morning, sipping his coffee to keep from biting his nails.

On the other hand, Dean was exuding an excitement that Sam judged to be slightly inappropriate. He almost felt bad for killing all the demons while Dean slept night after night, imagining his brother's expression when they returned with empty hands, gun still full of bullets, knives clean of blood.

Still, Dean whistled while he blared the music too loud, singing purposefully off key and stuffing himself with as much soda and candy as possible while they made their way to the abandoned farmhouse that Dean had tracked a supposed werewolf's location to.

Sam dug his fingers into his palm.

Werewolves didn't worry him anymore. He could handle a werewolf. Hell, he could probably handle twenty.

Just not with Dean around.

Dean tended to be…distracting. Additionally, incredibly fragile.

Which is why, when they arrived, he automatically sticks closer than is purely necessary, shoulders brushing every few steps, but the instinct to be _right there, _close enough to still make a difference if something were to happen, is impossible to kill. Dean doesn't say anything at first, still heady with the promise of the hunt, even though they aren't doing anything more than stumbling through the high snow, breath hanging in the air in small puffs of white.

They're in the middle of nowhere, some stretch of forest in a town and state that Sam can't be bothered to remember the name of. The kind of place that remains utterly isolated, quiet and still with no neighbors around for miles and miles. There is what looks to have been a garden along one side of a field, all mangled roots and frozen soil, a few pitted fruits scattered round. Sam shivers and thrusts his hands into his pockets, gritting his teeth and counting down the seconds until they're done. He feels too exposed, a raw nerve, laid out bare in this stupid field next to a stupid barn. If he were really desperate, he might sneak out to the Impala when they're back to the motel, cut a cord or two, loosen a socket that looks important. That would definitely keep Dean busy for days at least. He might even be able to squeeze a week or two out of it. Promising, but he cringes at the thought. If Dean ever were to find out, Sam knows he would be the one that needs protection.

And more than that, he knows at the back of his mind, that this game he's playing isn't sustainable. That there's no way to keep Dean safe with clumsy distractions and red herrings. But thinking about what's going to happen when, rather if Dean finds out- if Dean leaves, is impossible so he takes it one day at a time. One hour at a time when the day proves too hard.

But today, right now, Dean is alive, the white of his teeth flashing in a goofy smile he can't seem to wipe away. Sam just grunts and keeps his eyes peeled at the place where the tree line appears, at the small house and a little further beyond that, a peeling red barn. The hair on the back of his neck stands up, his fingers reaching out to wrap around the back of Dean's jacket. It's the reaction a child might have when they're afraid and something that Sam hasn't done for years. Can't really explain why he feels the urge to do it now. But for Dean, it proves to be the final straw.

"Dude, what is this attached at the hip thing with you?" He looks half a second away from slapping the back of Sam's head, equal amounts amused and annoyed. "Tryina tell me I need a babysitter?"

Sam fights the urge to flinch and settles for a scowl. "Shut up."

"Go check out the house. I'll take the barn." He orders, using _that_ voice. The one that always made his hackles rise when it came from dad's mouth but powerless when it comes from Dean's. "Hurry it up." he snaps without any real heat, nudging Sam's shoulder with his own just this side of too hard.

"You hurry up." Sam snaps back immediately, a little brother gut reflex but he watches Dean walk away like a beat dog, casts one final look over his shoulder before he makes his way towards the house, thinking about what a manipulative shit Dean can be when he wants to. He grumbles under his breath and makes a show of stomping out past the barbed fence and looping back around. Nothing here, just empty fields and cold bitter air that smells of pine.

The house is small and looks to be abandoned but Sam raises his hand to knock anyway, trying to conjure some halfway convincing lie he can hand to the owners if it turns out someone lives behind all that rust.

That's when he hears it. Something small shattering, a grunt of forced air. So faint that he really shouldn't have heard it at all.

Dean. His feet carry him back towards the barn, faster until he's in an all out sprint, sliding over the ice, almost toppling before regaining his balance. The door is partly open, banging in the wind. Sam wrenches it aside, throws it open and freezes.

Dean is standing in front of him, just a few feet away, close enough for Sam to witness the exact moment that his brother realizes what's happened, the exact second that confusion gives way to anger. By that time it's too late. He disappears in a sea of bodies that look just like him, twins, triplets, but there are half a dozen at least.

Sam feels another behind him just before a hand grabs the collar of his jacket, ripping him back outside just as Dean is violently pulled the opposite way further in. The door slams shut between them, the sound going through him like a shot.

Dean- the wrong one- smiles mockingly, a jagged butcher's knife in his hand, waving around precariously. The sight of it just about makes Sam's heart stop with fright, not for him, but because the others are all in there with Dean, all armed and dangerous and desperate for blood. Sam, half out of his mind with that particular brand of fear, does something incredibly stupid. He turns his back on the shifter, only intention to get inside that barn right the hell now and spill some fake Dean blood before real Dean blood is spilled. It's almost a surprise when a sharp pain explodes at his side. He swings around just in time to duck away as the knife, now wet with his blood, darts towards his throat.

Sam could tear him apart with a single thought but he doesn't. He wants to use his hands.

It doesn't take long. Sam doesn't let it. He could drag it out, play with his food a bit but Dean still needs him so Sam simply ducks into the shifter's space with speed born from a lifetime of death, gives a vicious shove that makes him stumble and uses gravity to turns the shifter's weapon on himself. It's over in a dozen seconds, a flicker of quick movement and sharp bursts of muscle and bone. Only then does Sam realize how quiet it is, his own panting, his own heartbeat pounding, the only sounds in the air.

"Dean, m'gonna kill you." Sam grounds out, struggling with the door that now seems to be jammed in place. His brother would manage to find a hive of shifters looking for a single werewolf. Just their luck. He keeps spitting out threats but it's mainly to combat the eerie silence. Because there aren't any sounds at all coming from the barn anymore.

Oh god, he doesn't want to see what's waiting on the other side of the door. Can't, can't, can't. He starts kicking, the burn in his side forgotten, animal noises erupting from his throat that builds into screams. Anyone close enough would think someone is being murdered, and maybe, just maybe they are because Dean is in there and Sam isn't and Dean- the wood cracks and the door swings opens and Sam is struck by the color first. All the red, all the blood. Shifters bleed red. Just like humans. Just like Dean and it's everywhere.

And then he's struck by the bizarre sight in front of him, just as horrible as what Gabriel subjected him to before. Dean lying dead on the ground, a bullet through his brain. Dean with his throat cut, blood still spilling between the floorboards, Dean missing limbs. Dean dead and dead and dead.

Shapeshifters all in the form of his brother, all bloody and torn and still.

It shouldn't affect him the way it does. After all, Sam sees Dean when he closes his eyes, when he pretends to sleep. Blink and it's gone. But this is different. Sam could reach out and touch the body closest to him. Feel the ebbing heat, his messy hair, stupid green eyes wide and unseeing, mouth agape.

Somewhere hiding between all these corpses is the real Dean.

Until one moves. And then another and another. Rising to their feet like zombies, like the uses of their limbs is something new and frightening and Sam sees the trap for what it is. In the end, there are only two that remain still and Sam knows the one of them is Dean and the other is dead. He doesn't let himself consider anything beyond that.

What happens next occurs in brief snippets, fractured glass that could be cut away and traded, mirrored images that reflect on for an eternity. The world has narrowed down to this barn at this moment as if nothing else in the universe exists. Nothing but the heat of Sam's anger, the hunger of the shifters, the glint of moonlight peeking through the cracked rafters, shards of yellow. Yellow eyes watching in the distance, and there's a foreboding sense of coming full circle.

A distant certainty welling up inside that it's all been in preparation for this moment, Sam coming into his own, blinders removed from his eyes, some crucial distraction snatched away and now that it's finally gone, Sam can't even remember what it was in the first place. The one thing that kept him from this, blood on his hands and promise in his veins, nothing but strength and cunning. The thought feels a bit banal but it reverberates like fact, like stone one. Pull that away and it all comes tumbling down. So Sam doesn't stop to consider why or how. He just acts, the way a wolf would prowl into a flock of sheep.

Dead things already, they just don't know it.

Sam knows how to keep the anger and fear and spite he feels clamped down, shoved away into some box. Locks have been added through the years when the old one gets too worn. He tried not to think about the day he might lose control, always assumed it would be a slow process, a downhill slide.

He never expected to lose all those years of carefully maintained control in a single blurred movement, between one second and the next.

All that anger, all the darkness brewing that's been kept tightly locked away since he was born, turned into little else but splinters. It's not how Sam thought it would be when it finally happens, inevitable of course, always that. But he hadn't expected it to be so freeing. And faced with the truth of what he is, what he holds inside him, Sam feels the guilt fall away like it was nothing more than a coat to shrug off.

His barely moves a muscle, a twitch in his jaw, dilation of the eyes until they are almost black, closer every day, shoulders tense but that is all. That's all it takes anymore.

And then there is even more blood than before, stretching upwards into the air, hot splatters of it coating the walls. Sam takes a long deep breath, scenting the tang of copper and death and his own distinct scent, burning and alive and so powerful he could killing anything. He wants that, misses the taste of demon on his tongue and can't remember why he ever went without for so long, why he kept himself hanging on like an addict without letting go and abandoning himself to the gluttony. For now, Sam settle for grabbing the lighter in his pocket, testing the scratch of flint, the burn of flame. He gives it a careless toss and it falls down into the hay. A hungry blaze follows, everything dry and sheltered from the damp air outside, ready to burn.

There's something else prickling at the back of his mind. The sense only of something important, something vital forgotten. The more he prods at it, the further it slips away. Sam sneers at the bodies littering the floor. He did this for a reason after all, didn't he? Dead and there is solace to be had in that because they'll be safe. But that's wrong because there's just him. No one else around, just the shifters and something about all their faces... a rush of wind at the door and Sam feels the prickling sensation of eyes on his back, burning through his disguise and seeing...something. Eyes from above looking down and Sam fights the urge to flinch into himself. He straightens instead, defiant, eyes still training on the bodies like a hook carved into his mind, keeping him grounded. _Remember._ An echo reverberating back around. _Remember._ But he doesn't.

He wishes they were alive so he could kill them again just to impede the sense of frustration. Sam backs away from the flames, ignoring the doubt, ignoring the unease that screams he is doing something wrong wrong wrong. In a last ditch effort, he tries to retrace his steps, to account for this night. Why is he here? It's all sharp grey smoke and gaping blanks. Waking from a vivid dream and losing it piece by piece the harder he tries to remember. Maddening. Sam stomps out.

Someone stands in the snow, a pulse of darkness emitting from the skin she wears. She has a familiar face- round in a way that would look soft and innocent on anyone else. Meg. A slow trickle of memories wait behind closed doors and could be his if Sam were to probe a little deeper, but he can't find it within himself to care. Sam ignores her, still drunk off the bodies that lay prone behind him, not from their blood, not this time, but from the act itself.

The girl-Meg- starts to talk and Sam can't understand the words coming from her mouth but the shape of her lips, the way she throws her hands back and forth, is frantic. She looks towards the barn that has now been completely surrounded by flames and gasps.

There's one word, one name she keeps repeating, screaming desperately over and over. Meaningless, forgotten, probing its fingers into his mind, refusing to let him leave. The hinges of his mind are rattling, bones fighting their locked joints. Everything inside him wanting to get out. He forces his way past her but the name doesn't stop. Dean dean dean dean. A thousand images conjured and not one that makes any sense. Leather and freckles and safety and home.

Sam snarls and she lets out a grunt of pain, eyes wide, limbs trembling, nothing but fear darkening her black eyes as she stares into his, held tight by invisible ropes of power. Sam presses down, just a little, just enough. Her face goes as white as the snow around them, broken by a trail of red when her nose begins to bleed. Her mouth gapes wordlessly, a fish tossed from the ocean. Sam holds it, a faint tremble set over his skin from the pleasure of it all, from the absolute control he holds over her, over the rest of the world, over anything that might dare cross his path. After a life of bruises and broken bones, being untouchable is like having ecstasy injected into his bloodstream, overwhelming and irreversibly addicting.

She falls to her knees, clawing at her throat, at the frozen ground, at the air, anything, anywhere to make it stop. The life is bleeding out from Meg's vessel, almost a corpse, almost. She summons up the rest of her strength and gasps out the name one more time.

Sam's frown is ripped away as agony explodes through his skull, pressure finally released in a bewildering blur of memories and emotions. His entire life in a single word. One name. Dean.

Sam remembers like ice being injected into his veins, sudden and horrifying at once. Meg is released, a balloon cut from its string. Sam snaps back into himself, the feeling of all that strength drained down to nothing more than a memory. Hollow bones like a bird.

Time slows like it does when the blood is just about to hit. It takes years for him to turn, years to step towards the flames, longer still to force his way inside, taking no heed of the heat, the flames licking at his clothes, his skin. He doesn't feel any of it, eyes flickering back and forth, watering from the smoke wafting heavy and dark in his face, searching for Dean. For the real Dean. Not like the others. Unconscious but alive. He throws a prayer heavenward. Let him be alive. Let him be alive. He'll pay any price. He might be frozen for the rest of his life. He might burn where he stands.

And then Sam sees him, too close to the flames but it's Dean. Knows without testing him with silver or holy water, knows in a way that goes beyond being family, as deep and engraved as instinct. He stumbles over, tremors beneath his skin rising, gaining strength, sapping it all away. Black spots dance across his vision. He looks around for Meg. She's gone if she was ever there at all.

Dean is pinned down, pressed into the floor by a fallen beam and Sam's hands shake violently as he tries to pry it off. The skin on his hands tear and burst. Something wet falls from above, the reek of iron. Another blink and it's gone.

One of the shifters smile his way, still wearing Dean's face but his mouth is too wide, teeth jagged and curled into a Cheshire grin. _Look what you've done._ Sam bites back a sob and presses his palm against his eyes until fireworks explode behind them, until the voice stops screaming at him. When he opens them again, the shifter is dead once more. The air vibrates around them, the barn groaning and shifting. There are holes burnt through the ceiling and darkness above it. The shadows crawl around his ankles, begging him to stay, to grow roots right here. Right here, down and down.

There is pain, still more distant than what's inside his head but it's growing louder, trying to make itself known, crawling over the back of his legs and he realizes that the smell of his burning clothes and skin is real. It's enough to get him moving, enough to shove the rest of the furniture out of the way, to grab hold of his brother's arms. Sam pulls Dean though the fire, smoke clogging his lungs, burning its way down his throat, into his nose. He keeps going, one foot in front of the other, not sure now if he's making his way further in or out. The smoke darkens everything or that could just be his own eyes. Screams all around and it might be the growl of hellhounds, the snap of their jaws when they try to drag Dean away. Sam's fingers are shackles around Dean's wrists, digging in hard enough to press bruises, to shift bone. The blood in his veins is boiling and he is so very thirsty it's hard to make sense of little else.

He only knows he's make it outside when a cool burst of air hits his face. He looks up and all around is darkness. The world is alive and angry and Sam is not untouchable anymore. Seconds tick by and his vision clears enough to see the pale moon waxing, a handful of stars scattered like glitter.

The sharp edges of adrenaline have abandoned him completely, smoothed clear out and Sam only now realizes just how much he's shaking, how weak he feels like the muscles in his body have turned to water. His legs threaten to give out any second but he still drags Dean further from the building, ready to topple, the skeleton of it the only thing stand, the rest eaten up. There are burns on his arms, angry sizzling marks, the stench of burnt hair, burnt skin in his nose, dizzying and cloying.

Pain is there as well, further off. Sam is used to that.

And Dean lying unconscious, bleeding from a wound on his head, Sam is used to that too.

He huddles next to Dean, afraid to touch, afraid not to, settles for pressing his hands against his brother's body in barely there touches, testing his ribs, his arms and wrists. Nothing is broken, not even dislocated. The wound on his scalp looks shallow but it keeps bleeding like head wounds are ought to, turning the snow around them bright red. Splashes of their blood here and there, mixed so that it looks interchangeable. But Sam thinks he can see the difference, his own a shade of two darker than Dean's. He pushes the thought away. Now is not the time for that.

Dean is alive. They both are. Realistically Sam knows that his own wounds are more serious but he can't sense them anymore, just a buzzing at the back of his mind.

Easy to push away because Sam will heal. Already is.

But Dean- Sam tore the shifters apart with no thought in his mind for Dean. Burned the barn with the simple desire to reduce it to ash. He might have killed his brother and not even known.

But more than that, Sam thinks about how he came so close to leaving Dean, letting him burn alive, how Dean might be a pile of bones if Meg hadn't come. By the time Sam realized...

He thinks about Meg's words from the week before. The warning that seemed absurd at the time because he would never hurt Dean but now- his stomach clenches, burn of bile and that's the only warning he gets before emptying the meager contents of it onto the snow.

It's growing darker still and the temperature is steadily dropping and Dean still hasn't moved. Sam knows he should start the trek back to the car and then the drive back to the motel where he will carry Dean inside to get him clean and warm and bandaged and lay a guard of salt around both their beds. But he doesn't move except to pull Dean a little closer because the world waits for them just beyond the field and Sam is tired and sleep is nowhere to be found.

So Sam curls his fingers around Dean's jacket in a suicidal grip and listens to the pulse of his brother's heartbeat and tries not to think of anything at all.


	5. Chapter 5

A wild longing for strong emotions and sensations seethes in me, a rage against this toneless, flat, normal and sterile life. I have a mad impulse to smash something, a warehouse, perhaps, or a cathedral, or myself, to commit outrages.

-Hermann Hesse

* * *

There wasn't much privacy to be found on the road. Even before Sam could speak, he and Dean practically lived in each other's pockets. They shared everything because there was no place to hide anything and even if there were, they were still brothers. Sam survived on Dean's hand me downs and the immunity to isolation he developed lingered long past childhood. But there were still limitations, few as they may be. And for Sam, that means Jess. She was still a pain point. He supposed she always would be. There was still an instinct to flinch when he heard her name, even if it was meant for a stranger on the street.

So while Dean had no qualms about borrowing Sam's clothes or using his razor or even toothbrush when things got bad enough, he didn't ask about Jess. It was obvious that he wanted to, that he was curious of the parts of Sam's life he had been barred from for four years. Curious about the girl that had wormed her way into Sam's heart and mind and trust, burrowed past the defenses he'd been taught to keep. The girl whose death had propelled Sam back into hunting with barely a second thought. Something that Dean and dad hadn't managed in life.

He'd tried once in the past. He'd been feverish from an infection, courtesy of a particularly angry spirit who'd tossed him like a rag doll onto a pile of sharp rusty tools. Dean was delirious to the point of hallucination, a fever ravaging its way through his body, constantly shivering, eyes wide and staring at things that weren't there. The only noises he'd been able to make were moans and whimpers, until that night when Jess' name made its way past his lips, glassy eyes trained on Sam, as close to begging as he'd ever come. Dean didn't relish the idea that pieces of Sam could be foreign to him, didn't matter if they were buried in the past or not.

So Sam had tried, mainly because as much as Sam knew Dean would be fine, it was hard to brush off the blood and bruises that littered his skin when it was right in front of him in stunning clarity and detail.

It hadn't gone well.

Sam's eyes had shuttered, become withdrawn, paled to a ghostly white. He'd stumbled through an attempt at normalcy, really tried to give his brother something even if only to distract him from the fever but in the end, all he'd managed was to shatter the glass in his hand, something that should have embarrassed the hell out of him. It didn't.

Dean didn't tease or laugh or do anything other than look away and close his eyes, taking deep unsteady breaths. That's how Sam knew he could still scare Dean half out of his mind. The following morning, he claimed not to remember a thing. But he never brought Jess up again.

Sam couldn't say why it affected him so much, not really. Time had passed and that was supposed to help, supposed to make it easier. Jess with her bright smile and snorting laughter that she never quite managed to stifle. Jess who had seen past the facade of Sam's shyness, who had dragged him from the safety and familiarity of libraries to the world beyond. Not to bars and clubs like most college students with the first taste of freedom would. Jess had taken Sam to carnivals and amusement parks and cafes. To dusty bookstores and ancient museums and odd art shows. She'd been in love with being alive.

The girl that would cause Sam's hands to sweat and nervously finger the ring he had been carrying in his pocket for months, searching for the perfect time. The girl that was more innocent than anyone Sam had met before, who couldn't have deserved what happened to her less.

Sam tried to make it through a day without thinking of her. Dean learned not to bring her up.

She was the perfect scape goat.

And as guilty as Sam felt using Jess as an excuse to get away from Dean, he knew it was the only thing that had a chance of forcing his hand.

"It's the two year memorial. Her parents are going to be there and I-I need to go."

It was a conversation Sam had brought up the week before, testing the waters to see how hard he needed to push.

After all the demons and vampires and near death experiences the last year had in spades for the both of them, it turned out he needed to push pretty hard.

Finally Dean sighed and Sam recognized the trademark Winchester one last ditch effort when he saw it. "I could come along-"

"It's just a few days. A week at most. Take this time to do...whatever it is you do when I'm not here."

Dean flashes him a look, clearly unimpressed. And Sam can't help but twist in the knife, telling himself that he'll make it up later. Get the food for a month, won't complain when his brother drinks too much and eats nothing but burgers and candy. Hell, he won't even say a word when he replays Zeppelin a million times over. "You were the one who said it would be healthy for us not to be so…"

"So what Sam?" He growls, a dare in and of itself. Lesser men have cowered before that look but Sam doesn't so much as blink.

"Codependent." He sighs, scrunches his nose up. "C'mon Dean, we practically live in the same body."

"We do not." Dean snaps but Sam knows he's just arguing out of habit, just for the sake of it. Dean doesn't like to let things go without a struggle. "Last night I won a nice little chunk of cash at pool while you insisted on being an old lady and read about hobbits for the hundredth freakin time."

"That was last week." Sam shoves another shirt into his bag, kneels on the floor to reach under the bed for his missing shoe.

"Whatever." Dean waves it off, scowling when Sam zips the bag up tight. He makes sure not to rush out the door, can't give Dean a reason to suspect when he's this close to freedom but it takes more out of Sam than it should. The tremors are building deep down, a slight sheen of sweat at the base of his neck, easily explained by how hot Dean likes to keep the room in winter. But Sam knows that isn't true.

In the end, Dean lets him go. Sam's eyes keep flickering up to the rear dash until his reflection is swallowed up by the road. It won't be long now.

* * *

Sam's plan is a simple one. Put as many states between him and Dean before the detox starts. Realistically, he knows that Dean won't follow him, that Dean will allow him this small semblance of privacy even though he'll spend every minute apart worried. Probably call Sam a hundred times too. He shudders to think of what will happen when Sam fails to pick up the first or twentieth call. If he's lucky, he'll spend the majority of time unconscious but then again, Sam's never been one that fate has smiled upon. So while he knows that it's doubtful that Dean will find him, it makes him feel better to put more space between the two of them.

Objectively, he realizes it's erratic- the feeling like the closer he is to Dean, the dirtier his brother will get. Maybe he's scared that Dean will be able to pinpoint him, that his infamous Sammy radar will make an appearance. Their entire lives might be riddled with the supernatural but sometimes Sam feels like his brother's eternal awareness of him might be the strangest.

He doesn't even make it out of Texas before the shaking in his hands and the pounding inside his head has gotten too bad to drive in a straight line. It's a futile hope that the hallucinations won't reappear. More than anything else, that is what he dreads most. Ghosts of his past, figments from his nightmares rearing their heads, burrowing their way inside.

When his visions begins to fracture, he stops at a motel, looking just like any other strung out junkie. In a motel like this, they don't ask questions. Half their clientele order rooms by the hour, the other half trash the room in drunken stupors or half crazed highs. He's barely able to salt the door and windows, much sloppier than his typical OCD lines from the way his hands keep shaking. The cough at the back of his throat turns into hacking.

He sounds like he's dying, maybe he is. He knew the detox would be torture but it hadn't occurred to him until this very moment that he might not survive it at all.

He tries to clean it up the first time, the splatter of red globs that burst out of his mouth when he loses the ability to grit his teeth any tighter. He tries to pretend it's punch or strawberries or tomatoes but the taste of blood is impossible to deny, especially for him.

He's barely able to grab a washcloth before his knees are buckling again and his stomach is fighting its way up his throat. The sensation of being burnt and the cloying smell of sulfur black everything else out for a long time but when Sam blinks away the tears in his eyes, he can't see any demons.

Sam loses time. He can hear the clock tick tock on the far wall but it means nothing to him. Seconds stretch out an eternity. Days slip through his fingers.

Jess hangs wide eyed on the ceiling, flames burst from her chest, hair all but singed into nothing. Drops of her blood sizzle on the bed below. Sam tries to convince himself that the smell of burnt flesh is nothing more than his mind playing tricks, relaying memories. It doesn't work. Sam is back in their apartment. Jess is still dying, still burning and Sam still can't move.

Soaked in sweat and utterly wrung out, he watches the body on the ceiling spin, disintegrate slowly, flecks of skin peeling and falling until there is nothing left but bones. He watches transfixed, forces himself to watch, to take in every single pain and panic tinged expression on her beautiful face. It goes on forever.

A clogged highway runs just past the motel but no noise makes it through, neighbors on both sides but Sam doesn't so much as hear a peep. Nothing exists outside of this room.

Sam confines himself to the bathroom for the rest of his come down. He opens his eyes and peers around, trying to asses the damage while his mind is still his own. Small shards of broken glass on the floor and he glances up and sees why. The mirror is cracked, flecks of dried blood and skin molded round the pieces. The knuckles on his right hand are split open, sluggishly bleeding. There are smudges of blood in his clothes, smeared across the tiles of the floor.

Sweat soaked towels cover him. The room reeks of copper and fear and sickness. He doesn't know how many days have passed. For all he knows, it might only be hours. Just the thought of crawling to find his phone leaves him exhausted.

Eventually, he makes it to the bed and pulls the covers over his head, hoping to sleep for ten or twelve hours. If he's really lucky, he might stay asleep that entire time. More realistically, his sleep is set to be broken by lingering bouts of nausea, of the final purging of blood up his throat into the toilet.

Slowly, the cramps in his stomach begin to lessen and the absence of pain is a shock to his system. He catalogs his condition slowly. Throat- scraped raw from the continuous vomiting and screaming, the pleading before his body submitted to sleep and dreams and nightmares. God, he forgot how horrible those could get. Clothes- ruined. Room- ruined. Phone- probably littered with increasingly desperate voicemails from Dean.

Sam clambers to his feet with the grace and speed of a child learning how to walk. He leans against the wall for several minutes, taking deep breath, before he can safely strip off the shirt and pants he plans to burn and climbs into the shower, water hot enough to burn. He stays under the spray until it grows cold, not thinking of anything, just concentrating on the soothing burn. When he emerges from the shower, Sam feels like a new person. A person recently recovering form a rather nasty bout of flu but a person nonetheless. It takes close to an hour to dress and shave. His hands are shaking so bad that he has to keep stopping before he's even started, wary that he'll accidentally flail and nick his jugular. By the time he's finished, his face is mostly smooth and his legs threaten to give out from holding him upright so long.

He's clean, he keeps telling himself. But he doesn't feel very clean. He feels vulnerable, an exposed wound. Suddenly the world is a big dangerous place. He's always known that. It's been drilled into him and Dean since they could walk. But he's never felt it as much as he does now. Never felt this level of vulnerability, defenseless with Dean, helpless without him.

The shadows don't disappear even after the sun comes out.


End file.
